This poem is from a a new manuscript of poems set in Ireland and meditations on the Book of Kells. It’s still in progress . . . . Visit my website, www.barbaracrooker.com for more news.

Sceilig Mhichil: A GlosaIt is hard to believe that for quite a long time—almost a hundred years—western Christianity survived by clinging to places like Skellig Michael, a pinnacle of rock eighteen miles from the Irish coast, rising seven hundred feet out of the sea. —Kenneth Clark

Every day, hands are creating the world,fire is married to steel,and canvas, linen and cotton come backfrom the skirmishings of the laundries.

“In Praise of Ironing,” by Pablo Neruda translated by Alistair Reid

They sat on hard benches in stone beehivesperched above the immaculate seaon the steepest, most wind-battered peak,climbing six hundred steps to the scriptoriaon rocks piled by the hand of God.Skellig Michael, above the waters’ skirl.The Vikings somehow found them,looted and plundered, but the monksbuilt again, and the word unfurled.Every day hands are creating the world.

On this impossible crag,this tower of slate, stark fissures,castellated outcrops terrifyingabove the brooding sea, the steps risebetween fangs of rock, a spaceto chasten or elevate souls. Feelhow it was to live in a clochán,nothing but obdurate rock above and below.In Europe, books burned, but here were concealed.Fire is married to steel.

No one could labor like this who didn’t love books,the gospel page shining, white as cottonfresh from the laundry, a pledge that darknesscould turn into light. Even the shapesof the letters were magical, the humpsand curves of half-uncial, insular majescule, blackink made from soot inscribed on sheepskin,the fabric of God’s words, newly woven,hands fast as shuttles, each simple act,canvas, linen, and cotton come back.

Imagine a world without reading or learning;imagine a life without books. A land ruledby ax and sword, stones stained with blood.No bleach or bluing to set things right; no ironmangle to wring things clean. Cities tumbledto rubble, books burned for warmth. Armieslooting the countryside. Only the Irish, on an islandin the icy sea, water-swirled and rock-haunted,the ragged edge of the West, saved whole librariesfrom the skirmishing of the foundries.